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own!” He glared at her. “
The Strictures of Scrymgeour Weger
, written by Ochadius of Riamh, and gathered, from what I’ve heard, only at incredible peril to the man.
That
book.”
    She put her hand over her belly before she thought better of it. There, residing under the waistband of her trousers, was a book for which she had given half of all the meager coins she’d managed to accumulate over the years doing odd things about the Guild.
The Strictures of Scrymgeour Weger
was indeed the title. Just looking at the cover had fair burned her eyes. She couldn’t quite bring herself to think about the things she had read inside.
    The peddler put his hand suddenly on her shoulder and turned her away from the border. “Run. The carriage is waiting, but it won’t wait forever. Find a solution to what you’ve left behind here while you’re still alive.”
    Her mouth was very dry. “But I know nothing about wars or rulers or—”
    “Then every book you ever were given by the mistress of the loom during all the years she had you at her elbow was completely wasted.”
    “But I am nobody,” she protested. “I am no one of consequence, without friend or family or any gifts—”
    “Then no one will miss you when you’re gone,” he said shortly. He put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “There is no one else, Aisling, no one but you. I suggest you go south.”
    South
.
    The word echoed in her head like a great bell that had been rung just once in an immense canyon. South. There were many things in the south, many places to lose herself. Scrymgeour Weger lived in the south, on an island, or so it was rumored. She didn’t suppose he would have an army at his disposal.
    But he might be able to tell her where to find someone who could do what needed to be done.
    “Tell no one of your errand or of your homeland.”
    She looked at the peddler. “Not even the mercenary?”
    He shook his head. “Have him meet me at Taigh Hall three months from today.”
    “And you think he will come?” she managed.
    “He will, if he wants the rest of his money.” He gestured to the pack. “The first half of his incentive is in there. He can name his price for the rest when the deed is done. Now, go. The sands have already begun to fall. Three se’nnights, Aisling, and no longer.”
    She turned and peered into the darkness, looking for a different means of escape. Unfortunately, it seemed her only escape lay along a path that was intertwined with the fate of her homeland, a land that had hosted her birth and now would be the reason for her death.
    She turned back to the peddler, but he was gone.
    Guards shouted in the distance. Aisling felt torn for a moment or two between two terrible alternatives. Then she took a deep breath, turned, and stumbled into the darkness.
    South.
    A blond man stood in the shadows that were unrelieved by even the faintest hint of moonlight and watched the carriage rollaway. He turned his head and looked at the peddler who had appeared next to him.
    “So, it is done,” he said slowly.
    “Finally,” the peddler said with a gusty sigh.
    The first man frowned thoughtfully. “It goes against my upbringing—”
    “Damn your upbringing and all your bloody ideals,” the peddler snapped. “I arranged this end of it. If you tell me all this work has been for naught, I will kill you.”
    The blond man stared off into the darkness, seeing things the peddler couldn’t. “Nay,” he said slowly, “the pieces are in place.”
    “I still say a firm hand in the backs of the players wouldn’t go amiss.”
    The other shook his head. “I have prepared my side as I could, as have you. There is nothing else to do but wait.”
    “I hate waiting.”
    “Which, if memory serves, landed you in a spot of trouble quite a few years ago with a particular member of your father’s family.”
    The peddler cursed him, then turned and stalked off. The blond man, ageless, having watched countless souls take their turns on the